Free Cheese

Sometimes, there’s no better word to sum up a week than fun. And for me, that’s what this week was all about. Let me weave ye a little tale….

It all started on Monday, when Stacey, Kelly and I put our momentary spurs on and decided to go to a concert. You may be saying to yourself, “This cat keeps saying he doesn’t make any money. How does he have the dough to go to a concert?” Well, my friend, being as that there is really nothing to spend money on during my day-to-day activities (unless I want a Big Texas cinnamon bun from the vending machine at work…and occasionally, I do), I was sitting pretty safe financially, so I decided to go for it.

It didn’t hurt that the headliner was Brett Dennen, of whom I am a big fan, as well as Grace Potter and the Nocturnals, and Robert Francis. From the first note of the evening, I was sold. Francis and Potter both blew me away by the sheer power of their vocals, and Ms. Potter’s band just straight up ROCKED. I had already deemed the night a success by the time Mr. Dennen prowled on stage (quite literally, it seemed as if he was prowling like a grasshopper. Do grasshoppers prowl?). Not to be outdone by the preceding acts, Brett put on one heck of a show. He is a very gifted lyricist, and it is obvious how emotionally attached he is to his music. The girls and I managed to get front row for his set, and we were extremely pleased with his performance. Did I mention we got free samples of cheese? I went home a happy man, and all I kept thinking was, “Thank God for good music!”

Tuesday brought around a bit of a road trip, as Rachel and I drove up to St. Joseph’s University for a basketball game between our alma maters. Now, this being my first time on campus since I got my graduation slip in May, I was excited to see the new Fieldhouse, and hopefully run into some friends. Despite some traffic, Rachel and I were able to catch most of the game, and we sat with some of the Philadelphia JV’s who had secured us our free tickets. I saw some friends, the Hawks managed to fly to victory, and we were home by eleven. All in all, a good night.

Thursday night, our support person Steve had us all over for a pre-Thanksgiving Thanksgiving dinner, and as JV’s, it is our sworn duty to never turn down a free meal. We headed over to his house, and after shooting the breeze for a bit and playing with his 4-year old son and 3-month old daughter, we sat down to eat. Now, mind you, Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, so that would explain the fact that I was in my glory. Turkey! Gravy! Stuffing! Sweet Potatoes! Pumpkin Pie! And a dog to pet after I was done! In addition to the great food, I was thankful for the company, and for the amount of great people to whom I have been exposed during my time as a JV thus far. This really is a great time of the year.

Saturday was spent tooling around in our nation’s capitol with the housemates and my favorite Hawk. I had been to DC numerous times, but this was the first with my people from Baltimore, and I was excited to experience the monuments with them. Every time I walk around those memorials, I get chills (it was a bit breezy, but I did have my trusty denim jacket on, so I was fine weather-wise), and being with my JV compadres, the experience meant even more. Brett Dennen sings that he “was made for better things.” Walking around DC, seeing the history and testaments of greatness before my eyes, and being with people whom we have shared much together, I too believe that we “are made for better things.”

Now, I’m looking forward to a short week, my family spending Thanksgiving Day in Baltimore, and a trip home to New Jersey. How is it almost December already?

Nobody's Perfect

"Nobody's perfect. Well, there was this one guy, but we had him killed..."
~ Anonymous

The other night, I finished reading Lamb by Christopher Moore (no relation to my boss...I think). After triumphing over the 900-page behemoth that is Lincoln by Gore Vidal (don't let anyone ever tell you that Mr. Vidal is a man of few words), I needed something light, funny, with just a smidgen of relevance for me. When I found out that Lamb was being marketed as, "The Gospel according to Biff, Christ's childhood pal," how could I resist?

This book is funny. Written from the point of view of a fictional character named Biff (Who knows? Maybe Jesus did have a pal named Biff. Is Biff traditionally a Jewish name? These are things I need to know), the book tells the story of Christ's forgotten years, from childhood to age 33, when he gets duped by a bunch of uppity Sanhedrin-types (you know the story).

The bulk of the book attempts, in it's own way, to fill in the blanks of Jesus' life prior to his preaching. Apparently, the author suggests that maybe He and Biff travelled east to China, India, and Tibet, in search of the three kings who visited Christ on the night of his birth. Along the way, Jesus and Biff pick up some knowledge on topics like alchemy, kung-fu, and the Divine Spirit. The big J-man then returns home to gather his flock and preach the good word, and all the while Biff is faithfully by his side, all the way to the bitter end (I don't want to give away the ending, but there's something about Jesus getting nailed to a huge wooden plus sign. I guess he wasn't too good at math).

So after I finished the book and laid my head down to rest, I got to thinking: what about this book is so far-fetched? No one really knows what Jesus did for basically his entire life, and what he do know about him was written by four guys long after he did his whole get-crucified-then-resurrect thing. And, after comparing the basic tenants of His teachings to that of Buddhism, Hinduism, etc., it would support the theory that Jesus was at least exposed to Eastern thought. The more I think about it, the more I like the idea that Jesus was a worldly man, that he spent some time tooling around distant lands, picking up morsels of knowledge otherwise unknown to his people in the Middle East. I'm no expert on Jesus (yet, at least). All I'm saying is, it would be pretty cool if we found out that the great Jesus H. Christ (in the book, Biff thinks the H. stands for Harvey. I think it's Herman) was also a full-fledged Buddhist monk, or that he spent years meditating in a Himalayan cave. It would at least serve as a great connector of all the world religions (not that we really need one, I mean, "Love One Another" should be a pretty universal thing, right?)

And that got me thinking some more (don't worry, I did eventually sleep that night). With so many people today getting caught up in meeting every minute "standard" of their religion, we are losing sight of the big picture. Let's not forget that most of what we have come to accept as religion (i.e. the various rules, dogmas, principles) have been created in the minds of men. Now I'm not saying that all religious leaders were sneaky little guys trying to brainwash all of humanity (although that may have been the case for some), I'm just saying "Errare Humanum Est" ("To Err is Human," for those of you who didn't take Latin in high school). Humans, for all their wonderful and amazing powers, make mistakes, and through the sands of time (I love that phrase, "Sands of Time." So important-sounding.), I'm pretty sure at least one or two were made when trying to put the Word of God down on paper. So while all these religious texts and writings we have are useful and should be carefully thought upon, let's not forget that it was Man who wrote them. Man is not God, Man was created by God (or Yahweh, or Allah, or...).

Needless to say, Lamb will get you thinking. Even if you don't believe a word in the book (after all, Christopher Moore would be a member of the "Man" I was referring to in the preceding paragraph), his story is at least fun to think about. Even if Jesus the man means nothing to you, even if you don't believe he walked on water, multiplied the bread, or turned water into chocolate milk (or was it wine?), his message should still have relevance for you. Just the idea that someone could care so much for his fellow man that he would lay down his life should serve as some sort of inspiration for all of us. Not, of course, to go and try to get crucified for your neighbor (do we still crucify people these days?), but maybe we can use his story to make a sacrifice in our own lives that will help the marginalized and neglected members of our society. Because after all, no matter what beliefs you hold, what colors you wear, what team you root for, at our most basic level, shouldn't we just "Love One Another"?



(If you have a conception of Jesus from which you are totally unwilling to budge, then you probably won't like this book. If you are looking for an interesting take on the life of a well-known man, then try it!)

A Thriller Night

The calendar says November; is it safe to breath now? The past fortnight (that's two weeks, in Shakespeare-speak) has been a big ol' heaping whirlwind of candy, trips to Sam's Club, and mechanical monster assembly. So, now that the 8th Annual St. Frances Academy Community Center Halloween Party (yes, that's a mouthful, but so is a $5 foot-long...and America loves its foot-longs) has come and gone, I'm going to make like a baseball player who puts his hat on twice and RE-CAP. (Get it?)

This Halloween bash was one of the first things I remember being stressed to me when I started at SFA. Mr. Moore told me he wanted it "Boffo," which, according to him, is a hybrid of the terms over-the-top and out-of-this-world (I'm still looking for "Boffo" in the dictionary). Anyway, for about two-to-three weeks (hey, anyone notice I just used 7 hyphens in the previous two sentences? Is there a hyphen limit in the English language that I should be aware of?) leading up to Halloween, I was basically in charge of preparing for the day while Mr. Moore secured the finances needed to pull off the event.

So there I was, digging through old boxes filled with fake rats, light-up skeletons, and gigantic spiders, trying to figure out a way to feng-shui a multi-purpose room and gymnasium into the spookiest rooms this side of St. Paul Street. And as I assembled a grim-looking groom who held his bride's severed head, I thought, "My job could be a lot worse."

10 a.m. Saturday morning. I had just spent the last 11 out of 12 days at the Community Center- so hey? what's two more?- (two more hyphens, by the way), and the game was on. I spent most of the day setting up the haunted house, directing the volunteers, and making sure the guy with no head was standing up straight (he tended to lean to the side a bit, no doubt caused by the extra weight of having to hold his own head. Poor guy.) By 3:30, we were sitting pretty. The gym looked smashing, the house looked haunted, and Mr. Moore and I looked excited, if not a little tired.

By 4;30, there was a line of kids lined up outside the front door. After assigning the 100 volunteers to their roles for the night, we opened the doors, and in flowed a grand assortment of witches, supermans, and ninjas. The neighborhood kids had come out in full force in their best costumes, looking for some candy and a good time. When it really comes down to it, aren't we all looking for some candy and a good time?

From then on, the night was a blur. Mr. Moore and I quickly changed into our Michael Jackson costumes. At 5:30, we made our grand entrance, walking out onto the balcony overlooking the gym floor to the tune of "Thriller," by the King of Pop himself. After showcasing our awkward-if-not-hearfelt moonwalking moves, we spent the rest of the night in our Jericurl wigs and pleather jackets. We floated around the place for the rest of the evening, working to ensure everything went smoothly and that everyone had a smashing good time.

At one point, I paused and took the whole scene of the night in. I was impressed at how many different groups had come together to help pull this thing off. Mr. Moore has an incredible amount of connections throughout the city, and he has many dear friends upon whom he can call at any time. Whether it be a donation of money or time, the friends and colleagues he has encountered throughout the years are all eager to help him, and I think that says a lot about him as a person and the work he does. I hoped that I would be in that position someday, and then I realized I am already on my way there. I looked at the volunteers, and I saw my housemates (who came as a box of crayons), some Jesuit Volunteers from DC, volunteers from other service corps within the city, and even a Saint Joe's Hawk! They all had put off their (assumingly) awesome Halloween plans to lend me a hand for a few hours, and I couldn't have been more grateful. Boy, it's good to have friends!

By 8 p.m., we were pushing people out the door, and the "Great Clean Up Dance" began. I was surprised at the amount of work we got done, and by 9 o'clock my housemates and I were out the door, heading home to our Crayola box (because we were crayons, get it?) All told, we had about 900 guests show up for the food, frights, and fun. A thousand bags of candy were given out, numerous horse and buggy rides were taken, and hundreds of little kids I'm sure made their bellies hurt while hopping on the moonbounce. After the chaos had subsided, Mr. Moore told me (still in his wig and wearing his sequined glove, mind you), "Well, Scott, you survived your first Boffo event." And that's what I feel like I did. It wasn't a perfect night, and I could have done some things better. But hey, even Michael Jackson himself made a sub-par album once(did he? I'll get back to you on that one). The point is, overall, the night was a pretty darn cool one, and I can't wait to see what's next!



(I counted the use of 20 hyphens. I hope this post is up to code.)

Six Thousand Words

A thousand greetings bestowed upon ye! I have been very busy as of late, with nary a second to be spent putting words to paper (or, words to a computer screen, as it were) about my days lately. So, until that happens, here's a few shots of what's been going on down in good ol' B-More. There's six pictures, each containing a thousand words, so you can do the math to figure out the title of this post. See, learning can be fun! Enjoy! Go Phillies!



Fort McHenry



Druid Hill Park



Carving Pumpkins



8th Annual St. Frances Academy Community Center Halloween Party



Mr. Moore & I



The Haunted House

Be the Rain

"Be the ocean when it meets the sky
Be the magic in the northern lights
Be the river as it rolls along
Be the rain you remember fallin'
Save the planet for another day
Be the river as it rolls along."

-- Neil Young, "Be the Rain"

Sometimes you need the rain. It can’t always be 76 degrees and sunny out all the time (sorry for the reality check, Southern Californians). Sometimes you need the raw wind to blow the feeling out of your nose, and sometimes you need the freezing rain to soak through your shoes, leaving your toes to do the penguin circle dance as they curl together to stay warm. As the weather unleashed a totally uncalled-for attack of miserableness upon Baltimore this weekend, the housemates and I caught a glimpse of a different side of being a JV in this city. No longer was the bright, sunny weekend that we all look forward to at the end of each work week, one where we can play Frisbee in the park and our two feet can pleasantly take us wherever we want to go.

In an effort to really commit ourselves to the four values of JVC (Pop quiz time! Ok, what are the four values of JVC? Write your answers down, and you'll find out if you are right later on later on…), the housemates and I came up with a number of challenges that we as a community would like to try this year (Answer! Simple living, Community, Spirituality, and Social Justice. If you got more than 3 wrong, go ahead and reread the previous material, and if you still need help, maybe I’ll call your parents). This past week, we decided to focus on the value of simple living, and we all tried to find ways in which we could take ourselves out of our own comfort zones throughout our daily lives. For some, this meant taking a sub-5 minute shower; for others, this meant taking a military shower (a word of caution for aspiring military shower-takers: it will be difficult to grip the knob to turn the water back on after you have lathered your hands with soap. I recommend using only one hand to handle all your soaping activities). We also set goals for limiting TV time, car-driving time, and personal computer time. By attempting to cut back on all these things, we taught ourselves a few lessons. First, we realized that, even by volunteer standards, we are lucky to have so many things at our disposal- i.e. a house with working heat, a hot shower, and food. Second, by removing the distractions that many of these things cause, we were able to focus and apply our selves to the here and now, both at our places of employment, and within our home.

This week we are taking on the challenge of buying only locally-made or sold groceries. This means no shopping at big supermarkets like Giant or Safeway. Therefore, the major source for food will come from a farmer’s market that operates once a week by our house. And on Saturday morning, that is where we were, ponchos and hoods on, perusing the produce, looking for the best price.

We spent a lot of money at the market, more than we usually spend during our trips to the Giant (20 dollars for 2 gallons of milk! But, I must admit, the glass bottles that they come in are really cool). But, as we walked back to our house that morning, we agreed that this is all part of the learning process. Though we spent a lot, we were still under our food budget for the week, and we were able to buy everything we needed from either a local grower or a local store. Though we will not be eating the meals we are accustomed to this week, we will get creative with what we can cook for dinner, bring for lunch, and eat for breakfast (it’s looking like no cereal this week, but on the flip side, we have about a million and a half English muffins). And, though we could not get everything we wanted, we came to decisions on what we did get as a group. And as we got back to the house, I felt good about how we dealt with this challenge, if not just a little cold from the rain.

In the end, this is why we are here. We’re not here to experience sunny weekends all the time; sometimes, it has to rain. For us, the real meaning lies within the rain. What will happen to me as an individual, and to us as a community, if we choose to deal with these restrictions and challenges, if we choose to let it rain on us? In a broader sense, that is what this whole year here is about. We could have all done the 9 to 5 job thing and come home each night to a warm, food-stocked house. But if we wanted that, we wouldn’t have sought out JVC. We make this commitment to live for a year because we want the challenges. We want to see how we will deal with them, and we need to see how they will affect us.

In a sense, we need the rain.

602 Biddle Street

Where did you go?

I remember when we first met. You stood in front of me, gazing up at my face, staring at the front door as if, after all this time, it could possibly not exist. You walked up to it, and it opened. Something about the way you held your head, or the look in your eyes, a glint that seemed to be the result of the marriage between your mother’s hope and your father’s sacrifice, of the souls of the ones who came before you. You stood there, holding the key to each one of your ancestor’s dreams, the key to something they so desired but could never possess, like Icarus and the call of the sun. You held the key to something your own; you held the key to me.

I gave you four walls and a roof, and you gave me a purpose, a reason to stand tall and strong. You lit up the windows so my eyes could shine upon the street at night. You opened the door so I could always have the chance to speak, even if silence suited me. You painted my face, a bright red, so I could feel beautiful. You gave me a soul.

Where did you go?
I remember the day you left. Your head was held differently, your eyes did not shine like they did before. I wanted to follow you as you walked away that day, and I surely would have had I not been bound to this earth. Unlike you, this street is where I was born, and it is where I will eventually die.

Since you left, no one cares. The paint has worn thin by weather and apathy; my face is old, tired, and gray. The windows are broken from bricks and Molotov cocktails; my eyes shine no longer. The door was boarded up by a man who lives out in the suburbs; my mouth has been rendered mute. My soul, which once soared with the hopes and dreams of your family, now plunges to the bottom with the despair of the squatter and the insanity of the binger.

Where did you go?
I do not know. Maybe you departed for a better neighborhood, maybe you found a street worthy of your feet. I hope you have. But you should know that I miss you, that I need you. I can do better for you, we all can.

Where did you go?
I hope you’ll come back.

Backsweat & Baseball

I can tell that the seasons are changing by looking at the amount of backsweat on my shirt when I get home from work. August and September brought the heat, and my dress shirts and polos held the sweat-soaked outline of my backpack as I pedaled uphill to my house. Now that October has arrived on the scene, the cool fall breeze has deftly disguised my physical exertion as I tool around the streets of Baltimore on my red Giant (brand name, not description of size…because if I really wanted a “giant” bike, I would get one of those early 1900’s types with the huge front wheel and tiny back wheel. Ahh, if only…). While I appreciate the job the breeze has done to mask my sweaty backside, I know it is only a matter of time until the breeze becomes the wind; strong, relentless gusts that attack bikers from every angle except from behind (because that would be appreciated, to be pushed uphill by the wind. Ahh, if only…). Wind is the biker’s worst enemy.

As I approach the two-month mark of being in JVC, I am feeling more at home in Baltimore. The Community Center has offered its share of joys and challenges. Last week Mr. Moore and I conducted a school and community-wide food drive to commemorate Bea Gaddy, who is known as the “St. Theresa of Baltimore.” Ms. Gaddy rose from a life of poverty to become a leading advocate for the poor and homeless of Charm City (that's Baltimore, in case you were unaware). In 1981, she prepared Thanksgiving dinner for 39 people from her own kitchen, and this event grew each year to eventually reach over 25,000 of Baltimore’s neediest citizens. Though Ms. Gaddy died in 2001, the Community Center has continued with the drive, even when other neighborhoods (and even the mayor’s office) have dropped it, so that her spirit may live on. This year’s drive produced over 650 canned goods, and over $300, and increased awareness about the life and work of Bea Gaddy.

My fellow roommates and I enjoyed a nice long weekend when we traveled to our October retreat, which was about an hour south of Baltimore and occurred, oddly enough, at the beginning of October! There we met up with the southern half of JVC East (the Raleigh, DC, Philadelphia, Camden, and Newark houses), and got to hear their tales of glory and splendor since we had last seen them at orientation (we also swapped some of our own stories, like that time we defended the Harbor against an armada of bloodthirsty pirates!) The theme of this retreat was “Community,” and I was surprised at how fruitful the discussions my roommates and I had were. We left the retreat with a renewed sense of purpose and direction, for both our places of employment as well as the goals we hope to accomplish within our house this year.

Overall, life is good. My only real complaint is that, because of this real-life, full-time job, I am forced to watch my Phillies make their playoff run on GameTracker instead of on actual television. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful to have an update of the score, but the ambience of playoff baseball is lost somewhere between the batter dressed totally in white and the pitches that have different colored tails following them. It also doesn’t help that Mr. Moore purposely tells me the wrong score every time he sees me. Hey, Mr. Moore! Just because the Orioles are perpetually futile doesn’t mean you have to rain on my parade! Which perhaps will be making its way down Broad St. this time next month?

An official decree to the citizens of Baltimore: Yes, I have been wearing a denim jacket, with sometimes matching denim jeans, whilest riding a bike on your streets. It’s called a Canadien Tuxedo. Deal with it.